


Omnes una manet nox

by swat117



Series: Post hoc ergo propter hoc [1]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: David is David, Election Night, Johnny Rose for president, M/M, Patrick is a speech writer, Political AU, handwaved political jargon, indulgence beyond compare, or perhaps more importantly: First Lady Moira Rose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:22:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27388660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swat117/pseuds/swat117
Summary: Patrick writes the words people speak for a living. Eloquent and powerful words that change hearts and minds and inspire action. He isn’t usually the one doing the actual talking.(or a sappy political AU)
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Series: Post hoc ergo propter hoc [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2087199
Comments: 78
Kudos: 235





	Omnes una manet nox

**Author's Note:**

> I know this isn't what everyone will need to read today, but it was apparently what I needed to write.  
> Keep the faith. ✌️
> 
> Edit: SPREAD THE FUCKIN FAITH Y'ALL WE DID IT !!!!!!!

  
  


He doesn’t remember falling asleep in an armchair in the corner of the war room, but now he’s waking up, a hand on his shoulder and a light shake. 

“Hey, Patrick.” Another shake. “Patrick, you lazy clod. Time for bed.”

“Iamsleep, shhh.” He tilts his head to nuzzle into the hand. Must be David. Warm. Smells nice—leather, and oak. 

“Patrick. They’re not gonna call it tonight. Let’s go to bed. C'mon.”

And—that wakes him up all the way. Because, shit. _David._ He’s nuzzling into _David._ While he’s no longer in denial that he is in love with Senator Rose's son, he’s pretty sure nothing is actually going on between them. There’s the countless hours on the bus arguing policy, and the nights after that at the hotel bar trying to talk anything but politics. And all of Alexis’ winks directed towards him while she stands on stage behind David delivering his speech. But whatever that adds up to, there are no beds involved. 

Except that now he's nuzzling David’s hand. Patrick slowly blinks one eye open, then the other. 

“Well good morning, can I have my hand back please?”

Patrick’s cheek retreats and he sits up straight, rolling his shoulders to iron out the stiffness. “Time’s it?"

“Three-thirty. Roland” —David still winces as he says the name. Schitt might be a genius political strategist but even Patrick, who would never speak ill of his boss, can admit he lacks decorum—“says we should rest up. I mean, actually, it was more of a joke about a sex dream featuring Janet Reno but it was so traumatizing I immediately erased it from my mind. He’s right though. Should find a real bed. Can’t make a final pass at that victory speech with a crick in your neck.”

“Hey, don’t jinx it!” David just laughs and pulls him up out of the seat. "I told you what happened in '12 with Bradey. If that—"

“—barista hadn’t written ‘you got this’ on your cup, you would have won. Yeah, yeah. That’s definitely it and not the fact that it was raining and your margin was only four points to begin with."

"How long have I been asleep?"

“Not long. Fifteen minutes, maybe? Do you not remember my mother banishing you to the corner so you’d stop exacerbating my father’s 'cardiac ineptitude?’ ”

“She really needs to stop saying that out loud. The press all have the signed medical records saying that it was just heartburn, and they still think we’re hiding some fatal preexisting condition.”

“Hey, if you want to bring it up with her, be my guest.”

“You know what my favorite part of working for the Rose Campaign is?” The door of the suite shuts behind them and they start the walk down the too-bright hallway to the elevator bay. "Obviously Senator Rose is an inspiration, but it’s really his family. All so helpful and collaborative. Always willing to go the extra mile to help everything run smoothly.”

David shoves him sideways. “My father would be lost without us. _You’d_ be lost without us.”

Ain’t that the truth. 

Politics is a lifestyle, and when he joined on to this campaign, it had been great to lose himself in that. His first general presidential race. He’d just broken it off with Rachel and, if he was honest, he knew exactly the reason why it hadn’t worked out. But he didn’t have to think about that, because he was _busy._ Eighteen hours a day, on and off planes and busses, no days off. He was happily lost. 

David got called to the trail three months ago, after a scandal in the tabloids following a nasty break up. His history with drugs, a distant habit, dragged back out and paraded around to humiliate his father. Senator Rose faced it head-on. It was the handling of his son that cemented Patrick’s allegiance. He dealt with it not as a politician, but a parent. 

Patrick wrote David’s first public speech, and the rest since then. In the space between making excuses to huddle in the corner of an office together, pouring over words for this or that upcoming event, Patrick watched. He watched David grow into a role model and ruthless advocate for queer rights on the national stage. He watched David sneak a second donut off the snack table. He watched David’s sideways smile as he waved with his family to the cheering crowd. He watched him like the North Star, until the only thing guiding him through those eighteen-hour days, and on and off planes and busses, and past no days off was David. 

And now they are alone in an elevator. On election night. And between them in this small gold-adorned space is the pull of whatever-this-is that’s been building and building for months. And David’s smiling at him as he presses the button for his floor, then Patrick’s, and leans back against the wall. And maybe it’s finally the right time, unlike the last hundred nights when they separated to catch a few hours before an early take-off, or Patrick had to return (guilty, two beers in) to his laptop. Tonight there’s no work, only waiting. Except, maybe he doesn’t have to wait anymore for this. 

The elevator pings and the doors slide open. David pushes off where he’d slumped against the wall, gives a half-wave, and exits. 

For a second, because it’s habit, Patrick just watches. Then the doors start to close, and through their shrinking margins Patrick feels the pressure of the moment condense and explode. He shoots a hand out to trip the sensors and calls: “David!”

“Mmm?” David turns around, lazy and graceful. 

“I just want to say—” He hadn’t thought this through. “—thanks.”

“Thanks?"

Patrick writes the words people speak for a living. Eloquent and powerful words that change hearts and minds and inspire action. He isn’t usually the one doing the actual talking. “Thanks, for, uh, everything? For the hard work, and the company. For being a friend. Whatever news we wake up to in a few hours, I’m really proud of you, David. You made these last few months happen. For me, at least. And I just thought you should, um. Know that.”

The odds are good. He has the data; he’s seen David watching back too. But like waiting for any results, there is a moment before the call gets made where he talks himself into the worst, into losing. Into David giving a plaintive _“Sorry, it’s not the same for me,”_ and walking away. 

David’s walking towards him now, and that's a positive, but Patrick won’t jinx it with hope. Then David's back in the elevator, crowding Patrick against the wood panels, grounding a hand up his neck and kissing him. This is better than winning Georgia. Maybe not Georgia. Wisconsin and Michigan, at least. New York, definitely, because that was a sure thing. It feels now like this is a sure thing too.

They kiss until the elevator opens again, on Patrick’s floor this time. They kiss down the hall, tripping on carpet and each other. Patrick taps his room key against the handle, all but kicks the door open, and they kiss there—half in, half out. 

It’s dark. Nearly 4 a.m. David pushes him down onto the bed. 

“You can’t just say shit like that,” he says. His hair is messy and Patrick can hardly see him at all but he knows the face that accompanies. It’s the same one he gives Patrick when he’s trapped into agreeing with him about tax code. The same one he gives when he doesn’t want to outright compliment Patrick’s writing but is impressed all the same. _Against my better judgment,_ it says, _I like you._

“Words are kind of my thing, David. In case you forgot.”

Though silent, David’s next kiss is reply enough.

It might be time finally for a day off. No speeches, no politics. Just this. Just David.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Omnes una manet nox / One night waits for us all - stolen from The West Wing, lol obv. 
> 
> thanks, as always, to this-is-not-nothing.


End file.
